


Your Strength For Torah, Your Beauty For Me

by Heretic_Fangirl



Category: Rabbinic and Talmudic Judaism RPF, תלמוד | Talmud
Genre: M/M, Slash, אמוראים, גמרא, תלמוד בבלי
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heretic_Fangirl/pseuds/Heretic_Fangirl
Summary: The Rabbi Yochanan/Reish Lakish fic we deserve.AU without the tragic deaths that occur in the canon.
Relationships: Rabbi Yochanan/Reish Lakish, Rabbi Yohanan/Reish Lakish
Comments: 22
Kudos: 9





	1. It Starts With a Man Who Jumps Into a River

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So here's the plan: I'm going to write this, but the only way I'm going to continue writing it is if there's some accountability from my readers. So if you want to see more, let me know so I'll be motivated to keep writing it!  
> *Thanks to Sefaria.org for an enormous, free bank of Jewish texts in English that can be searched by keywords.  
> *Thanks to my beau, my friend, my concordance on demand, for assistance with research and historical accuracy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reish Lakish sees a beautiful man bathing in the river and jumps in after him. The man is Rabbi Yochanan, also known as The Prodigal Beauty of Sepphoris. Rabbi Yochanan tries to convince Reish Lakish to give up his life as a bandit and study torah at the academy of Sepphoris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:
> 
> *chavruta = study partner  
> *Bar Lakish = son of Lakish

I’m sure you’ve heard the story about how Reish Lakish jumped into the Jordan River. In some version of the truth that was passed down through a thousand crumpled historical notes and traditions, woven into fairy tales and a few supernatural myths, a homeless bandit who had lost his way laid eyes on one of the greatest minds of his generation, whose beauty was such that the bandit mistook him for a woman. In his rush to charm her, the bandit dove heroically into the River only to find, once he was close enough, that the woman was actually Rabbi Yochanan, whose beauty was so devastating it could cause the earth to shake. And if the earth didn’t shake, anyone who gazed upon him was nonetheless brought to their knees for beholding the wonders of God’s creation.

But the truth, that is so often scoured and scrubbed of any hint of what was then thought abhorrent, is that Reish Lakish did not mistake Rabbi Yochanan for a woman. His vision was sharp as an eagle’s eye. He was a calculating risk-taker. Swift as an antelope, stronger than a lion. His wit as sharp as the dagger in his belt.

Despite generations of sanitizing and polishing stories to make them more palatable for a strictly hetero-normative society, the fact remains that Reish Lakish jumped naked into the Jordan River in pursuit of a man.

His crawl is forceful enough to fight the current, even though he really doesn’t need to, but can’t resist showing off the power of his biceps. A moment later he is at Rabbi Yochanan's side, slithering into his personal space to deliver a confession coated in layers of snide remarks.

But before he gets a word in, The Rabbi says to him, “Wow. With that kind of strength, I could almost mistake you for a torah scholar.”

Without even thinking about it, Reish Lakish quips, “With beauty like that, I almost mistook you for a woman.”

Rabbi Yochanan raises a single, bemused eyebrow as he glances at Reish Lakish, shaking water out of his ears, barely flinching at the cold as he approaches Rabbi Yochanan in the stream. “Almost?”

"If one sees a man bathing in the river,” Reish Lakish says, mocking the method of talmudic torah study, because he knows who this man is, everyone has heard of The Prodigal Beauty of Sepphoris. “And that man is the most beautiful creation he has ever laid eyes upon, such that his breath is stolen from his lungs-” he gasps dramatically and clutches his chest- “and his clothing abandoned on the bank as he jumps into the river after him,” He pierces Rabbi Yochanan with a stare he usually reserves for bottom feeders, the agents who are clearly not the brains of the operation. “Does the water of the river purify him from sin?"

Rabbi Yochanan smiles patiently and treads water. "Surely, all sins of the heart can be purged by soaking in a living stream."

Reish Lakish swims closer, and now they are only the distance of one broken branch. "But whence do we know that lusting after a man is not a sin of the heart, but of the flesh? As it is told, "for man sees what is in the eyes, but God sees into the heart." Samuel, 16. Therefore the inclination to be dissuaded by physical beauty is a limitation of being flesh and blood."

Rabbi Yochanan scoffs and tilts his head back. "Well, you’re quite the scholar, aren’t you, Bar Lakish."

Reish Lakish turns on his most despicable grin, the one he uses when the battle is won and the opponent knows they've no choice but to surrender. "My reputation precedes me, then."

Rabbi Yochanan appraises him, a carefully concealed smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Apparently it withheld your aptitude for Torah study."

Reish Lakish rolls his eyes, because this is not the first time someone has tried to make him walk the straight and narrow, not even the first time this month. He makes two quick strokes to the river bank and effortlessly hoists himself out of the water. "I hope it did justice to my impertinence and complete disregard for Rabbinic royalty." And he plummets into the water, creating as big a splash as he can. And with his broad back and sheer muscle mass, it’s impressive. He springs off the riverbed and resurfaces, wiping water from his eyes, waiting for the other man’s reaction.

Rabbi Yochanan is unperturbed. The same postured smile still echoes beneath his proper mannerisms. "What's here for you, Lakish? Come back with me. We could use a mind as sharp as yours."

It’s easy for the well-endowed who rarely spend their time in the physical world to throw out words like nuts from a pinecone. None of them ever takes the time to think about what giving up his life to study torah might entail.

Reish Lakish laughs. "My mind is as sharp as your blade-forging skills."

Something flashes behind Rabbi Yochanan’s eyes: a distant hollow, a dried up memory passed down through generations. He knows this because Reish Lakish can tell a man’s weakness by studying him from afar; but now, from this distance, he can see even more. Rabbi Yochanan stands before him, naked, up to his shoulders in the water, one of the most brilliant minds of his time, known for his beauty on both sides of the River Jordan, and yet completely alone. Is that by choice?

Rabbi Yochanan blinks his gorgeous, deadly eyelashes and offers this: "I have a sister. She's even more beautiful than I am."

“Not possible,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Rabbi Yochanan turns up his palms. “Well, you’ll have to judge for yourself.”

He watches Rabbi Yochanan turn and start a perfect breaststroke through the water. He watches the Jordan River roll off Rabbi Yochanan’s shoulder blades, watches his hair fan out behind him. Reish Lakish is at least partly distracted by the unforgivable grace of Rabbi Yochanan’s body, but the other half of his mind, the one that doesn’t live in his manhood, is pondering the Rabbi’s words.

_What’s here for you, Lakish?_

He has no family, unless you count the members of the Silver Serpents. Although many can match him for strength, none can challenge his mind. He sometimes watches them, all senses addled by spirit, dancing around the fire and laughing and boasting of sexual conquests, and wonders if any of them would share the agonies he conceals. He has a thirst that can not be quenched by wine and a woman’s lips. A red-hot need to know, to understand, to chase questions about existence and about God, and justice and inequality, until he reaches the seam when the heavens meet the earth. Even then, he is not sure he would stop.

Now Rabbi Yochanan’s eyes are locked on him, but his expression is soft, expectant. He knows. It is beyond infuriating because Reish Lakish is supposed to be the one who knows, the one who can see through the feeble armor with which people try to hide themselves.

Still, the last thing he wants is to be known as the bandit who went slack, who was rescued from a life of crime to lick mud off Rabbi Yochanan's boots. In a few quick strokes he is back to the river’s edge. As he tries to pull himself out of the water, his arms are suddenly weak. He falls back into the river and stares at his discarded robes on the bank. An ache has risen in his chest and made its way to his throat. He swallows.

The truth is. The raw, unshakable truth is, he's tired. And underwhelmed. And one fleeting moment of arguing with the brilliant man before him fanned the dying embers of the intellectual he used to be. Maybe the fire isn’t dead after all.

And maybe, just maybe, there is a part of him deep down that has been searching for a way out longer than he’s been aware of.

Dreading the gloat he is sure he’s about to receive, he turns back around to face Rabbi Yochanan, who has stationed himself near the western back, so every drop of water clinging to his skin is glittering in the sunlight. Reish Lakish’s mouth is alarmingly dry.

"On one condition," he says, as if he is in a position to make demands. But he knows from a lifetime of experience, a good gambler never plays all the cards at once.

"What's that?" Rabbi Yochanan asks him, finally allowing his amusement to break through the decorum.

Reish Lakish wades nearer to him, watching Rabbi Yochanan’s pursed lips glint as they wash gold in the sunset. "I want to study with _you_."

Rabbi Yochanan's eyebrows pop right up into his river-soaked hair. "You wish to be _my_ chavruta?"

Reish Lakish nods, perhaps enjoying this too much. "Yes."

"You think you, a humble thief, are a match for the mind of Rabbi Yochanan?"

Reish Lakish narrows his eyes, his jaw set. He swims right up close to Rabbi Yochanan, so their bodies might touch underwater if they're not careful. With his face close enough to count the water droplets from Rabbi Yochanan’s eyelashes, he says, "I never said I was humble."

Although Reish Lakish can not see, somewhere deep within the chilly caverns of Rabbi Yochanan’s heart, a new kind of fire sparks to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources that inspired this chapter:  
> Talmud Bavli, Bava Metzia 84a


	2. The Academy of Sepphoris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reish Lakish adjusts to the customs and social structure of Sepphoris Academy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> \------------  
> Beit Midrash = the hall designated for torah study  
> mishnah = the first major written collection of the Jewish oral traditions, the talmud is structured based on it.  
> tefillin = (or phylacteries) a set of small black leather boxes containing scrolls of parchment inscribed with verses from the Torah. Worn by observant adult Jews during weekday morning prayers.  
> shtender = like a high up desk used to perch a book (or scroll) during a lecture  
> chevruta = study partner  
> minchah = the afternoon prayer  
> \---
> 
> "ch" as in Chanukah  
> "i" is either like "it" or long "ee"br />  
> \---

“For God called it wood _,_ ” Yochanan is saying, as a room full of scholars nod off, thinking he can’t see. “A _s_ it is written,” he continues, “ _‘The altar-- wood, three cubits high, and its width was two [cubits]; and its corners, width, and walls of wood; and he said to me, 'This is the table that is before God’ (Ezekiel 41:22).’_ ”

Yochanan sets the book of Ezekiel down upon its stand. “And from here we learn that that one’s table can offer absolution, in lieu of the altar which offered it during the time when the temple stood.”

“But was the prophet referring to an altar, or a table?” pipes up a voice at the back of the classroom.

Rabbi Yochanan closes his eyes and breathes out a long, deep sigh to avoid rolling his eyes and shaming this reformed student in front of his peers. He opens his eyes and gazes fondly upon the bane of his existence, Reish Lakish. _Why do you always have to complicate the most straightforward of things?_

“Ezekiel was clearly using one as a metaphor for the other,” he says. “We learn that from the parallel between the word _altar_ and the word _table_.”

Reish Lakish is not satisfied. He has that glint in his eyes when he knows he’s getting under Yochanan’s skin. “What if the altar was also used as a table?”

Yochanan tilts his head smugly. “Well, the point still stands.”

Reish Lakish is not backing down, though. He is determined to milk every last detail for knowledge, never willing to draw a simple conclusion, always looking to iron out the smallest edges until he knows deeply that he is correct. “But how do we know whether the table is sacred because it is compared to an altar, or if the altar is sacred because it is a table before God?”

Yochanan is losing his patience. It is good to question the scriptures, but there are times when it truly is _just as simple as it seems._ “The altar is sacred because it’s the damn altar!"

“Not if nobody sacrifices on it!” Reish Lakish exclaims, nearly leaving his seat from the passion of the argument. “Planks of wood measured in cubits are not sacred by their own merit unless designated as a tool of worship. If a table is designated as a tool of worship, it therefore _gains_ the sanctity of an altar. But an altar, if unused, is nothing but a table!”

Yochanan closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose. He sucks in his lips. The entire classroom is holding its breath. Fourteen rows of torah scholars sit on the edge of their seats, eyes on him.

Reish Lakish clears his throat and adds, “Honorable Rabbi.”

Yochanan smiles in spite of himself, because he adores this precious scoundrel and his incessant need to argue with everything that lives (and some that don’t.) “Well, Bar Lakish, what do you learn from the prophet’s words, then?”

Reish Lakish glances at his own borrowed copy of Ezekiel, sitting open on the desk before him. His brow creases as the wheels of his audacious mind spin. “When the temple stood, the altar would atone for one’s sins. But now, in this day and age...one’s table atones for them.”

Yochanan lets out a long, long breath. His head is pounding. He has been on his feet for seven hours, and this brilliant yet persistent novice has been trying and failing to poke holes in his logic all day long. He gives Reish Lakish a nod that says, _Good job reaching the same conclusion I told you about at the beginning of this segment._

Reish Lakish grimaces and leans back in his chair. “Don’t look at me like that.”

* * *

When the lecture is finally over, a pimply youth makes his way over to Reish Lakish’s desk and introduces himself as Rabbi Assi. He is a head shorter than Reish Lakish, and his chin is smooth as a baby’s bottom. Reish Lakish gives a friendly nod and wonders how this tiny child can possibly be a Rabbi. On his heels is another student with narrowed eyes and an upturned nose. Rabbi Ammi.

“You’re quite bold, you know,” Assi says, leaning in towards him, and Reish Lakish is uncertain whether he is being scolded or receiving words of praise. “It’s always good to ask questions.”

He’s still unsure which one it is.

Then as if he isn’t already condescending enough, Assi says to him, “But just between you and me, your proficiency in Mishnah could use some work.”

Reish Lakish’s thick eyebrows rise as he leans back on his heels. “It’s my first _day_ , oh beardless one,” he snarks, huffing his exasperation. He turns to walk away, but then it dawns on him. This tiny scholar has just offered him a word of advice.

He takes a deep breath and looks back at Assi, who is standing with his arms behind his back like he walked out of the womb upright and pure. Assi’s eyes are narrowed, and Reish Lakish can see the question on his brow: _What have you been doing with your life until now?_

He wants to thank him politely and leave, but he is not ready to open a discussion of his past, certainly not with a conceited pinprick he just met. Instead, he swallows and stalks off out of the Beit Midrash.

* * *

“So, um,” Reish Lakish is saying, hovering next to Rabbi Yochanan’s desk. “When are we going to study together?”

Yochanan looks up from a copy of Samuel. He doesn't understand why he wants to roll it shut all of a sudden. For some reason he's uneasy with Reish Lakish watching him read David's lament for Jonathan.

And Saul. It's a lament for both of them.

He bites his tongue to hold back from saying _Can’t you see I am in the middle of something?_ and forces a smile. “I wasn’t sure you were still interested.”

Reish Lakish gives him a face that says, _Do you think I was born yesterday?_ “I’m still interested.” He folds his arms across his enormous chest, and his muscles push out against the sleeves of his tunic. “But if you’re worried you can’t keep up, just say so. I’ll take it easy on you.”

Yochanan rolls his eyes so hard he has to remind himself to tilt his head back into place. “I’m sure I’ll do just fine,” he says with a brisk, flat smile. “We can start tomorrow after _minchah_.”

Reish Lakish nods and continues to stand there, in his line of sight, as if Yochanan _wants_ to keep looking at him with his broad shoulders and his magnificent arms and that skin which is tanned from living in the open, and those green eyes made for mischief. He’ll make a fine husband for Dina, that’s for sure. If she’ll even have him. The last time he spoke to his sister about her marriage prospects, he ended up with a bowl of stew in his lap. He probably should have asked before offering her hand in marriage to an ex-con turned mediocre student.

He tries to ignore it, but it’s too late. His mind has taken leave of whatever argument he was making with these references. He rolls up Samuel and brings a kiss from his lips to the handle of the scroll.

Reish Lakish is _still_ standing there.

“Did you need something else?” he asks. He pointedly ignores the voice in his head saying it really hopes recommending this _thug_ for a spot in the Academy was worth the risk to his reputation.

A smile curls at the corner of Reish Lakish’s lips as he shrugs those bulky shoulders and says, “No.”

There’s a twinge of annoyance in Yochanan’s gut. He really hopes this isn’t going to be a thing. He reminds himself that it’s for a good cause. If Reish Lakish is spending his time in the Beit Midrash, then he isn’t out in the forest stealing to survive. But also, Reish Lakish is really starting to get on Yochanan's nerves.

“Well, in that case, would you kindly return to your own seat? Rabbi Hiyya should be here any minute.”

Reish Lakish locks eyes with him and cocks his head to the left. He bites his bottom lip and Yochanan feels something in his body that he’s certain has nothing to do with torah study and even less to do with Reish Lakish looking at him. Definitely less.

Reish Lakish sighs. “Sure. Fine. We’ll talk after the lecture.”

Yochanan closes his eyes and smiles and waits for him to leave, but he’s still there. And now there are footsteps. And his teacher is entering the classroom.

And he’s still in his seat.

His eyes fly open and he stumbles over his chair in his haste to rise before Hiyya the Great. Reish Lakish is gone somehow - swift as the wind, that one. He cranes his neck around slightly to steal a glance at the back row. There he is, shoulders above the other students. But while all eyes are on Rabbi Hiyya making his way to the _shtender_ , Reish Lakish’s eyes are on Yochanan.

He can’t look away. But he has to, because Rabbi Hiyya has nearly reached his place at the front, and Yochanan knows better than to turn his face away from his teacher.

He swallows and turns back around. He can feel Reish Lakish’s gaze on the back of his head as Rabbi Hiyya gives them the signal to be seated.

* * *

Reish Lakish _notices_.

It’s what he does. He notices everything. He knows exactly how many of his classmates are paying attention to Rabbi Hiyya’s lecture, and how many are passing notes to each other under the desk. He knows that Rabbi Ammi, who sits next Rav Assi, is far too focused on a game of footsie with his chevruta to notice Rabbi Yotam pulling Rabbi Ammi’s tefillin out of his satchel. He can guess, pretty accurately, which of his classmates are married and which ones are not. He counts them with his eyes: wife. No wife. Wife. Wife. No wife. Wife. At least one wife, possibly two.

Details. It’s kind of his area of expertise.

He knows he doesn’t need to be in survival mode right now, but it’s a new environment, and he hasn’t sorted out yet who all the players are. He’s not really listening to the lecture. It’s not as if he’s going to get called upon to answer a question. Not in the back row. This is Rabbi Yochanan’s territory now. He finds him again, and realizes his favorite pretty-boy genius is talking.

“...that from the teachings of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai,” Rabbi Yochanan is saying, all poise and wisdom on his red, red lips. “Who learns that one is forbidden to fill his mouth with mirth in this world, as long as we are in exile, as it is stated in Psalms 126: ‘When the Lord returns the captivity of Zion we will be as dreamers.’ Only ‘then will our mouths fill with laughter and our lips with song’.”

Rabbi Hiyya is nodding his approval, and a few others at the front are frowning at Rabbi Yochanan, but in the back row, Reish Lakish has a few questions.

He, for one, is definitely _not_ in exile. He’s seen the sunset on Mount Miron. He can feel the spirit of the holy land radiating through his bare feet. So, shouldn’t _he_ be allowed to fill _his_ mouth with laughter all the time?

And what does that even mean, to fill your mouth with mirth? Can he fill his mouth halfway with mirth? Is it permissible to laugh through one’s nose? He’s dipping his pen in the ink now to write these down, if only for the pleasure of antagonizing Rabbi Yochanan with them later. He imagines the look on Rabbi Yochanan’s face when he asks these questions, all serious irony, and something clicks in his mind.

Rabbi Yochanan doesn’t laugh often. In fact, Reish Lakish can’t remember if he’s seen Rabbi Yochanan laugh at all. Which is surprising, considering that Rabbi Yochanan has met Reish Lakish, an event which usually has the effect of making someone either laugh or cry, depending on whether or not they’re getting mugged.

He wonders if that’s some kind of stuffy uber-observant thing Rabbi Yochanan does because of this teaching from Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, or if there’s another reason, perhaps one that’s a little more human.

He spends the rest of the lecture watching Rabbi Yochanan. He tries to imitate how he sits at attention, shoulders back, chin up, eyes fixed on Rabbi Hiyya, only looking down to check his notes or look up a verse to cite it correctly. He watches as Rabbi Hiyya ends the lecture and rolls up the scrolls and kisses them, as Rabbi Yochanan did. He watches Rabbi Yochanan stand and turn in place, full of purpose and respect, so he never faces away from his teacher.

And so, when Rabbi Hiyya finally reaches the back row on his way out of the Beit Midrash, Reish Lakish stands, straightens his shoulders, and doesn’t turn his face away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources that inspired this chapter:  
> Talmud Bavli:  
> Chagigah 27a  
> Berakhot 31a  
> Yoma 53a


	3. Figuring Things Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rabbi Yochanan helps Reish Lakish find a suitable method for memorizing mishnayot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Beit Midrash = the hall designated for torah study  
> Mishnah = the oral tradition as taught in the previous generation. Lots of chapters with laws and opinions and stuff.  
> mishnayot = the plural of 'mishna', a verse or group of verses that were passed down in the oral tradition and forbidden to be written down.  
> mezuzah = um yeah we attach a scroll to the doorframe and it has holy stuff written on it. sometimes it has a very pretty little case.  
> Pirkei Avot = one "chapter" of the Mishna that talks about how the oral tradition was passed down and has a lot of proverbs and sayings.  
> berakhot = one of the segments of the Mishnah that talks about blessings (and is relevant for produce)  
> shmita = another area of Jewish law that talks about produce. it's funny because of the figs. get it.  
> ben/bar = son of  
> prutot = coins of the lowest form of currency  
> \----------------

Reish Lakish is up at first light, and Yochanan knows it. He himself rises just after dawn, but by the time he arrives at the Academy, Reish Lakish has already been for a run in the woods and made the early morning prayer. He wonders if Reish Lakish is able to free up his mind to dedicate himself to Torah study if he is so immersed in the material world. But for now, he holds his tongue.

Reish Lakish wants to learn Mishnah. His mind is sharp as a needle, but sheer memorization is not his strength. He recites _mishnayot_ from memory and stumbles over the words, confuses which Rabbis gave which opinion. On occasion he sinks his head into his hands, or storms out of the Beit Midrash, and Yochanan doesn’t see him again until the next day. They’re treading on thin ice, he thinks, as he enters the Beit Midrash after the morning prayer (the one for people who get up _after_ the crack of dawn). He brings two fingers to his lips and presses them to the _mezuzah_ , as is customary when entering a room. Only a few seats are occupied in the semicircle in the lecture hall. Reish Lakish is not there.

Yochanan’s eyes sweep the room, even though, between his height and his booming voice that echoes in his round belly, Reish Lakish is not easy to miss.

He steps back into the hallway and listens. There is a hum of low conversation coming from one of the side rooms. He follows the sound and recognizes it as chanting, not speaking, and the single unmistakable vibration of Reish Lakish’s deep voice reverberating over the words of Pirkei Avot. He presses his ear to the door. 

_“The more flesh, the more worms; The more you own, the more you worry, The more wives, the more -_ life? No, ah. What comes after wives? Lewdness? Wisdom? All of the above? _”_ A long sigh. He starts to recite anew. 

_“The more flesh, the more worms; The more you own, the more you worry; The more wives, the more -_ AGH! Why can’t I remember this one? _”_ Yochanan peers in through a sliver of the open door to see Reish Lakish walking anxious laps around the room. “The more wives, the more...what? Come on, man. Women. We know this. What would the Sages warn us about too many women?” He stops to count off on his fingers. “Okay there’s life, understanding, wisdom, peace...no, that’s not right. The wives are in the negative half, because one _shouldn’t_ have too many wives. I know lewdness is in there somewhere…” He smirks. “That’s probably it. Okay.” He rubs his hands together and shakes out his shoulders. “Let’s try this again."

Over and over and over Reish Lakish says it to himself until he’s certain he has the correct recitation, and even then, he continues to say it. Twenty, thirty more times. Yochanan loses count.

He steps lightly away from the door so as not to startle Reish Lakish and makes his way to his seat at the front of the lecture hall. Reish Lakish joins him a few minutes later, slumping dramatically into the chair beside him. Reish Lakish straightens up and gives a long exhale, and Yochanan wonders if he was wrong about how Reish Lakish has been spending his mornings.

“Peace to you,” says Reish Lakish, with an air of exaggerated formality. He flashes Yochanan a wicked smile, and a secret thrill rises in Yochanan’s chest at the knowledge of the diligence that smile masks.

“And upon your...father’s house,” Yochanan replies, but both the words _father_ and _house_ come out with a stale aftertaste that makes him cringe. If Reish Lakish notices, he ignores it, and Yochanan is grateful for that. He clears his throat. “Have a good run?”

Reish Lakish makes a vague gesture into the air that encompasses both the beauty of the forest and the suffocating humidity of a Galilee summertime. He brushes off his tunic, even though there’s nothing there. Then he lets both hands slap onto his impossibly thick thighs and declares, “All right. I’m ready to have another go at the _mishnayot.”_

Yochanan glances sideways at this stubborn miscreant and is struck by his determination to stay on this path, even though it has brought him nothing but frustration and isolation so far.

He bites his tongue and starts nodding, but changes his mind midway. “No.” Yochanan gets to his feet. “I have another idea.”

Reish Lakish looks up at him, eyebrows raised, and Yochanan _really_ enjoys being taller for once. He nods sideways to the doorway. “Come on.”

Reish Lakish follows Yochanan out of the Beit Midrash, but Yochanan doesn’t stop in one of the side rooms. He keeps walking straight outside until they find a spot of shade beneath a fig tree which has just started to drop fruit.

“What are you doing?” Reish Lakish half laughs as Yochanan picks three figs up from the ground. He checks to make sure they haven’t been crushed. He tosses one to Reish Lakish, who makes a perfect catch without even trying.

“Just go with it,” Yochanan says. He tosses the other two figs to Reish Lakish and then finds three more.

“Are we doing _berakhot_ or _shmita_ laws this time?” Reish Lakish offers, examining the juicy figs in his hands.

“Neither. We’re still doing Pirkei Avot.”

With his eyebrows knitted, Reish Lakish watches Yochanan and waits for further explanation. “Okay.”

Yochanan holds out an open hand. “Throw me a fig.”

Reish Lakish does. As the fig touches his hand, Yochanan says, “The more flesh?” and tosses it back.

Reish Lakish doesn’t miss a beat. “The more worms.”

Yochanan smiles. “Toss it back. The more you own?”

Reish Lakish throws the fig. “The more you worry.”

Yochanan nods. “The more wives?”

“The more witchcraft.” says Reish Lakish, startling himself, nearly missing the fig. Eyes wide, he throws it right back to Yochanan, who is beaming now.

“The more female slaves?”

“The more lewdness.”

“The more slaves of any gender?”

“The more stealth.”

“The more Torah?”

“The more life.”

It’s working. Reish Lakish is sporting a wide, uninhibited grin, as though he might actually be enjoying himself. When Yochanan tosses him a fig and asks, “The more charity?” he practically yells, “The more peace! Woohoo! YES!”

Yochanan tries to keep his posture but the joy on Reish Lakish’s face is contagious. “Excellent. Now.” He picks up the other two figs he had set aside before. “Do you juggle?”

Reish Lakish leans back on his heels and smirks. Under his breath, he says, “What kind of reformed thief do you take me for? Of course I juggle.”

“Fabulous.” He indicates for Reish Lakish to take up his own three figs, and starts a three-fig cascade. Reish Lakish mimics him, and his technique is far better than Yochanan’s, but that was to be expected. In rhythm with the tapping of figs at his hands, he begins to recite: “Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai had five disciples. And they were:”

Reish Lakish repeats his words.

Yochanan tosses one fig higher up than the other two and says, “Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus.” He lets the three figs fall back into a cascade and then repeats the trick. “Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah.” Again. “Rabbi Yose, the priest.” One more time. “Rabbi Shimon ben Nethaneel. Aaaaand-” He can sometimes manage to spin while the ball is in the air, but he so often forgets not to throw the other two. Maybe this time. “Rabbi Eleazar ben Arach.”

Reish Lakish’s eyes are wide as _prutot_ , and he’s blinking rapidly as he watches Yochanan execute his rusty juggling skills. Yochanan doesn’t think about how good it feels to impress Reish Lakish with an earthly talent. He doesn’t. He just catches all three figs and nods to Reish Lakish and says, “Your turn.”

Reish Lakish restarts his own fig cascade and this time, before he does the high toss, Yochanan prompts him with the name of the rabbi. He repeats it. They go through the mishnah one more time with the same juggling routine. By round three, Reish Lakish doesn’t need prompting.

They get through “Go forth and observe which is the right way to which a man should cleave?” with an elegant two-fig three-fig switch-off and Reish Lakish has it memorized in minutes. The sun is becoming oppressive, so they stroll over to the well and share a drink of the most delicious freshwater anyone could ever imagine. They sit with their backs to the well in the shade of a great pine tree, and Reish Lakish drinks three times as much as Yochanan, and it’s exotic and mischievous and freeing. Reish Lakish drains the water satchel and laughs as he tosses the bucket back into the well. Yochanan wants to laugh too. He almost does. He can’t remember the last time his chest was so full of the pure lightness of being.

“What I want to know,” says Reish Lakish, lowering the chain into the well, “is who taught the esteemed Rabbi Yochanan how to juggle?”

Yochanan smiles as the memory comes back to him, clear as day. “Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi.”

There’s a distant _splash_ as Reish Lakish drops the bucket. “Yehudah- _the_ Yehudah HaNasi?”

“Only one like him.”

“You _knew_ him?”

Yochanan nods. “He practically raised me.”

“You kept that quiet!”

Yochanan shrugs his shoulders and watches a pair of ants try their best to lift a fig leaf. It's quite an undertaking, but they are not deterred.

“What made you decide to try that? Teaching me through juggling?” Reish Lakish asks him, pulling up a newly full water bucket.

Yochanan considers. “It got stuffy inside the Beit Midrash. I needed some air.”

Reish Lakish tilts his head, his mouth open as he pulls the bucket onto the ground to refill the satchel. “Rabbi! Did you just make a _joke_?”

Yochanan lifts both palms to the heavens and smiles mysteriously. 

Reish Lakish thumps him on the shoulder. “I am _so_ proud of you.” His hand lingers there, and just for a second, a shower of sparks trembles down Yochanan’s skin from the point of contact, spreading into his rib cage. When Reish Lakish takes his hand away, Yochanan still feels the weight of it, a red-hot echo.

In the wake of it, he finds himself compelled to confess something to Reish Lakish. Anything, really. He wants to open a deeper channel of communication and see what he might learn. “I had a dream once, of opening a school. A yeshiva. But it wouldn’t be exclusive like Sepphoris. Anyone who wanted to learn would be welcome there.”

Reish Lakish nods, loosening the knot to fill the satchel. “Why didn’t you?”

Yochanan flips one hand in the air. “No one would fund it. They’re only interested in the pure image of Jewish Excellence.”

Reish Lakish takes another long swig of water. He offers it to Yochanan, who politely declines, so he sets it down on the dirt ground beside them. Reish Lakish heaves a sigh and leans his head back against the well. “You know, I’m not ashamed of my past,” he says, squinting across the grove where the chalk boulders are white in the blinding sun. “But still, I think I’d prefer not to tell anyone here.” He glances sideways at Yochanan.

“A man’s past is his own affair,” Yochanan agrees. “Nobody needs to know who you used to be. They must be content with who you are now.”

He looks over at Reish Lakish and is met with vibrant, green eyes. All he can think as he stares into them, transfixed, is that Reish Lakish is so incredibly _alive_ , and how wonderful that is. To be so present in one’s body and still choose to spend one’s time studying Torah. He’s a little bit in awe of this man.

He leans his own head back against the well, mirroring Reish Lakish’s position. “The truth is, you’re not the first reformed thief I’ve taught. Everyone has a unique style of learning. Some of us learn through the tongue, others learn through the body.”

Reish Lakish nods, his brow furrowed. He cocks his head and quips, “I’ll have you know, I’ve learned my fair share through the tongue.”

Yochanan bursts out laughing before he can stop himself. Reish Lakish laughs too. And there’s that feeling again, somewhere deep down, below his diaphragm, like something very old and very tired is slowly unfurling, stretching out its limbs, preparing itself to come back to life.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources:  
> Pirkei Avot 2  
> the rest is fiction


	4. To New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Holidays are upon us and Reish Lakish is not psyched for them. Rabbi Yochanan has a scheme that might cheer him up. Let’s hope it’s not a trainwreck!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been a while but I am still writing this fic. It's been a crazy month of moving countries and quarantine and lockdown and other things that have made it pretty hard for me to focus. But there is more coming. There is more.  
> P.S. The name "Dina" given to Rabbi Yochanan's sister is not based on any source. I have no idea what her name was and if you are familiar with a source that tells us otherwise, I am happy to be enlightened.  
> P.P.S. The apples in honey thing actually didn't start until the 1500s in Germany, so any apple-dipping on RH in this fic would be anachronistic. ~ Concordance On Demand  
> \-----  
> Glossary:  
> mishnayot = the plural of 'mishna', a verse or group of verses that were passed down in the oral tradition and forbidden to be written down.  
> Rosh Hashanah = Jewish New Year  
> Shabbat = the Jewish Sabbath, the 7th day, day of rest  
> Shofar = the rams horn that we use to make noise on Rosh Hashanah to remind everyone to get woke and be nice to people  
> Beit Knesset = synagogue, the place of prayer

An infuriating thing about time is how it seems to pass without anyone’s permission, without even announcing itself. It just lingers quietly in the backdrop of someone’s story and is only observed when the changes grow big enough to catch the eye. Fig trees drop one fruit at a time until you step in one of them and realize it’s Autumn. Pomegranates swell and ripen, and soon the city of Sepphoris is filled with the sweet smell of honey and the hum of lazy bees preparing for hibernation. It is hot as ever, but the new year is upon them. Apples and dates are sold by the bucket in the marketplace. Lovers procure gifts for one another. Grapes are crushed into wine.

But the magic of the High Holidays fails to infect him, and Reish Lakish ducks out from under the holiday spirit by diving head first into his studies. It’s not that he doesn’t like wine, gifts, fruit picked yesterday from someone’s field. He knows how to party. He can do hours upon hours of unsynchronized dancing and shouting drunkenly praises to the Lord. It’s what happens afterwards, when the drunken dancing is over, and everyone goes home to sit beneath their vine or fig tree and gorge themselves on soups and meat pies and baked goods, and laugh with their children, and drink even more wine, and make love to their wives. And Reish Lakish, who has neither children, nor a wife, nor a vine or a fig tree, is alone in the Beit Midrash, doing push-ups while reciting _mishnayot_.

He used to have a way to get through this time of year. He and the other Silver Serpents would gather in the woods and have a bonfire, and roast the kill of the day and maybe also each other. And they would drink wine they had inevitably gotten from someone else, until the hardships of holding someone at knifepoint and relieving them of their hard-earned meal were softened a little bit. Some days they would divide the camp in two and yell across the Sea of Galilee to see if they could hear on the other side. These days would tame the bitterness of shouting God’s name into empty, desert caverns, wondering how long he could survive without water. To cushion the blow of nights spent in the company of agony and starvation, they would swim in the Jordan and try to list all the Biblical figures who split the sea just because they could.

“Oh, and don’t forget Elisha,” Lapid would say, approaching a puddle on the ground and shoving it dramatically with a stick. “I mean, where was the dude even going?”

“Look, I get it about the Red Sea, right?” Reish Lakish would argue. “The thing is huge. It’s deep. Pharaoh’s army chasing them. They had nowhere to go. But Joshua? What excuse did he have for splitting the Jordan? He was just showing off!”

“Maybe it ran deeper back then,” Gideon would challenge. 

In response, Reish Lakish would swim the width of the river in a single breath. “It still wasn’t that wide!”

“You’ve forgotten about the women and children!” Yo’av would holler.

And Reish Lakish would grin his infamous grin and retort, “They can have a ride on my back.”

And for those precious few moments, he would imagine that he did have a family, and let himself believe that God had not forsaken him.

So, without those rare joys, it’s safe to say he doesn’t like this time of year.

Rather than face the impending hours of loneliness he is about to endure, Reish Lakish occupies himself by examining hypotheticals. It is a peculiar occurrence, but not unheard of, for Rosh Hashanah to fall on Shabbat. It is this phenomenon which has Reish Lakish curious enough to bring it up during a weekday study session with Rabbi Yochanan. Even though the answer should be trivial, he is not sure whether or not the _shofar_ should be blown on Shabbat. When he asks Rabbi Yochanan, the latter is not sure either. So they do what any good scholar would do, and go back to the source.

“Ah,” says Kahana, stroking his endless, white beard. “I’m so glad you asked.”

Kahana observes that there are two sources that talk about blowing the _shofar_. One of them says ‘a memorial of blowing’ and the other says ‘a day of blowing’ and derives some kind of conclusion from that.

Reish Lakish observes that this man is stuck up, uptight, and completely unaware of how many times in a row he just said the word _blowing._

It’s not that Kahana’s logic is difficult to follow, it’s actually fairly straightforward: on weekdays we blow, but on Shabbat, Reish Lakish’s mind is abducted from the realm of focus by the slow motion of Rabbi Yochanan’s Adam's apple as he swallows. His mind is joined by a knot in his stomach, followed by a pain he has felt before, that reminds him of being stabbed in the gut.

 _But really_ , a conspiratorial voice awakens inside him, _there’s no need to be jealous. Rabbi Yochanan doesn’t have a wife either._

 _He has a family, though,_ Reish Lakish insists. _He belongs somewhere._

The knot in his stomach grows heavy and sinks to the bottom of a dark pit inside him, anchoring him somewhere he can not see.

“Lakish?”

Rabbi Yochanan’s voice interferes with the lost thread of Reish Lakish’s thoughts. He startles from his daze to find Rabbi Yochanan watching him with a peculiar expression on his face which Reish Lakish is too flustered to read. 

If he had, though, the meaning behind Rabbi Yochanan’s expression might have calmed the sea of emotional turmoil thrashing within him.

* * *

The way Yochanan sees it, it’s simple: Reish Lakish is brilliant. Yochanan’s sister Dina is brilliant. Reish Lakish is beautiful. Dina is beautiful. Reish Lakish is single. Dina is single.

One invite for Rosh Hashanah dinner and Yochanan will have secured one third of his place in the peaceful afterlife.

The only complication is...he didn’t ask Dina. And for some reason she has a thing about being asked before being set up.

She doesn’t mind last-minute guests. Both Yochanan and his sister are avid about filling every belly, and Yochanan swears Dina’s cooking can keep a man full for a week. So, of course, she greets Reish Lakish graciously, and they set another place at the table. There’s plenty of wine, and the Lord knows there’s always plenty of food in her kitchen. 

It’s a nice dinner, so far, with Rav Hanin bar Papa and his wife, Elisheva, Dina’s close friend. They chat about small things, about which vendor had the best pomegranates, and who wasn’t at the _Beit Knesset_ tonight, and who’s expecting a child.

Yochanan clears his throat and holds up a slice of apple dipped in honey. The honey drips onto his plate, but he ignores it as he addresses the rest of the dinner party: Dina, bright and bubbling from wine and a good friend’s company, Elisheva smiling despite life’s hardships beside her husband, who looks spaced-out, but content, and to his left, Reish Lakish, at once flushed with excitement and humbled to be present for this intimate gathering. Yochanan doesn’t know why, but his heart falls out of rhythm at the glint in Reish Lakish’s eyes. He steadies his hand and raises the apple to bless the new year.

“To new beginnings,” he says, with a meaningful glance at Reish Lakish. “To a continued thirst for learning. To joy, and unity, and being fruitful.” He grins at Dina, who glares at him and takes a knife in her hand, just in case. “All right, all right. And to a sweet new year!” He holds the apple towards Reish Lakish. “Will you do the honors?”

“What? Oh. Of course.” Reish Lakish takes his own slice of apple, dips it in the honey and lets it drizzle into the bowl before reciting, “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, for bringing forth the fruit of a tree.”

“ _Amen,_ ” everyone says in unison. The room fills with the crunching of apples and that rare taste of sweet and sour, the fruit of the land mixed with honey from its flowers. Another year. Another chance to do right. Yochanan sucks the honey from the apple wedge and is filled with a sense of peace and contentment and optimism.

Which lasts for about a minute before Elisheva says something unintelligible and giggles, causing Dina to throw her torches-of-fire stare at him. He raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and reaches for another apple slice, but she grabs his hand to stop him.

“Oy, what’s with you?” he grumbles as she drags him outside to where the guests can’t hear them. “I thought we were having a nice Holiday dinner.”

Dina tosses her head and scoffs. She folds her arms across her chest and continues to stare murder at him. 

He swallows. “What?”

“Is this a setup?” she snaps.

He tries to laugh it off but the sound trips on its way out. He clears his throat. “Listen,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“How many times have I told you to _just ask me first?_ Is that so unreasonable to expect to know in advance when I’m meeting a potential suitor in my own house? Can you _please_ , for the love of The Creator, give me the basic respect of informing me that I’m going on a date, perhaps earlier than _halfway through it_ ? Seriously, Yoyo! I would have worn the _green_ dress instead of-”

She gestures vaguely to indicate her elegant holiday attire. Yochanan can’t see the problem.

“This one looks just fine!” he insists.

Dina rolls her eyes. “Well, maybe I don’t want to look _just fine_ if the person you’re trying to marry me off to actually turns out to be halfway decent?”

“Okay, first of all,” Yochanan says, indignant, “Reish Lakish is a _treasure_ , and any woman would be lucky to have him. And second, when you and I look ‘just fine’, the rest of the world perceives us as ‘stunning.’ So have mercy on him, alright?”

There’s a pause, in which Dina watches him with one sarcastic eyebrow raised and both corners of her mouth resisting a laugh.

“And…?” she asks.

“And,” he says for emphasis, “It’s hard to find someone beautiful enough to be worthy of you. But there he was. I just had to, okay? I couldn’t risk him finding someone else before you at least met him.”

Both of Dina’s eyebrows are up now, her mouth spread in an incredulous gine. “If that’s the case, maybe _you_ should marry him,” she quips, and stalks back inside to entertain the guests. Yochanan sighs and shakes his head, and wonders what on earth he’ll do with her, and why her joke made his chest feel weird. He puts it out of his head and follows her back inside.

* * *

Reish Lakish is no fool. He wants to pretend he heard nothing, while at the same time, at the back of his brain he is mapping out all possible scenarios in which he might get away with calling Rabbi Yochanan “Yoyo.”

The spirit seems to have died down a little, and the rest of the meal passes by in complete silence. Reish Lakish is impressed, honestly, with the richness of Dina’s cooking. Everything he puts in his mouth that evening is delicious. She is adventurous and creative, offering flavor combinations he would have never thought of. A spiced honey cake at the end of the meal proves that she is a master of balancing spicy and sweet (although Reish Lakish is primarily impressed that her honey cake tastes _good_ , which is not something he expects after years of honey cake handouts that tasted as though the makers weren’t too keen on a sweet new year after all.) When the food is gone, and Rav Hanin bar Papa and Elisheva have retired to the guest chamber, Yochanan takes the dishes outside to wash them and leaves Dina and Reish Lakish alone in the candlelight.

Reish Lakish leans back in his seat, vaguely aware that all the wine and incredible food have taken the edge off the discomfort he had felt earlier. The lights from the holiday candles and the oil lamp in the corner dance lazily on the walls around them. Slowly the realization creeps in that Reish Lakish doesn’t feel like a stranger here.

He steals a glance at Dina, who is watching the candles flicker. She is, as Yochanan had said, an exquisite beauty, with fresh, young skin and lips the color of pomegranates. Eyelashes of impossible length deck the lids of dark eyes that feel like staring into a lake and knowing there is so much more under the surface. Her hair is pulled back with a comb but the brown curls are uninterested in being tamed. More than anything, though, Reish Lakish finds he is drawn to connect with her because of who she is. Perhaps they will find camaraderie in the shared experience of coming in second to the insufferably beautiful genius who stands outside taking his fair share of the housework.

“Uh,” he says, a little too loudly. Dina’s eyes snap immediately to his. Instant regret. “I just…” he stumbles to find words. _Really? Now?_ “Thank you. For having me. It means a lot. I don’t know what Rabbi Yochanan told you, but if not for being here, I would have been alone.”

Dina smiles and nods. Glancing out the window, she says, “Nothing. He told me _nothing_.” She grins a little wider and adds, “But of course, you’re welcome. No one should have to be alone on the holidays.”

He returns her grin, and there is a slight connection in the mutual feeling of being left out of Rabbi Yochanan’s head. He catches her eye and she looks away, and the room falls again into a lazy awkward silence. 

Dina gathers bread crumbs on the table cloth and sweeps them with her hand into a pile. After a beat, she says, “All right. He did tell me a few things. Not a lot, but...enough to clue me in that you mean something to him. And, I have to say,” She looks up at him now, meeting his eyes with a warmth and fondness that had not been there before. “I’m grateful that he has finally met his match.”

Reish Lakish takes her words and ties them to his heart, listening to the echoes of _met his match_ over and over, as he lies in the dark of the main room long after the candles have gone out, full of wine and wishes and the best meal he’s had in years, and drifts into a contented sleep.

* * *

### TO BE CONTINUED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources that inspired this chapter:  
> Vayikra Rabbah 29:12  
> also maybe a little bit II Kings because really, what is the deal with all those guys who split the sea?


End file.
